


Love is Mean

by BarlowGirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Bad Touch, Besides the bad touch part everything happens off-screen, Derek POV, I do not know how to tag this so I'll put a detailed summary in the end-notes, M/M, No sex though, Parallel Universes, Stiles POV, alternating pov, seriously though, sort of, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarlowGirl/pseuds/BarlowGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Stiles,” Derek’s mouth says.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That’s me. So who the hell are you?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He doesn’t like the smile that curves Derek’s mouth. It’s a predator’s grin, and for a moment, Stiles wonders if this is what the moment before being slowly eaten feels like.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Um. I don't know where this came from. Apparently sometimes my brain comes up with _dirtybadwrong_ things. Seriously, check the end notes if you need to. Be kind to yourself.
> 
> Title is from Blue Jeans by Lana del Ray because I was listening to it a lot when I wrote this.

See, the thing is – the thing is, Stiles knows it isn’t Derek. He’s known this since the beginning of the weekly pack meeting, since the first easy smile, since the first laugh, since pretty much the moment he first saw whatever was using Derek’s body like a suit. But he waits, because there are too many people in the half-renovated Hale house, and this could end so, so badly. And it isn’t until everyone is gone that whoever – whatever – it is really looks at him for the first time.

“Stiles,” Derek’s mouth says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That’s me. So who the hell are you?”

He doesn’t like the smile that curves Derek’s mouth. It’s a predator’s grin, and for a moment, Stiles wonders if this is what the moment before being slowly eaten feels like.

Derek’s body _saunters_ towards him, hips swaying, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans and a bare shoulder flashing now and then from under his leather jacket. It’s deliberately, purposefully seductive, and so many kinds of wrong.

“You would notice, wouldn’t you?” _he_ says, stopping a bare foot away. “You’re different here, but you’re kind of still just you. You still like the way people scream when you hold them down and carve their chests open?”

For a second, Stiles loses his breath.

Derek’s body laughs again, like it’s easy, and it makes Stiles’ skin crawl. “Guess not. Or maybe just not _yet_. You know, you only need a reason to be a killer. And even then… well, you’d be surprised, kiddo.”

Stiles swallows. “What’d you do to him?”

Derek’s body shrugs. “Nothing much. You’ll have him back in a couple days, safe and sound. I just need to lay low for a few. So Allison’s still alive here, huh? You fuck Scott yet?”

“ _What_?”

This other Derek takes a stop closer, eyes darkening. “You used magic to hold him down the first time. Scott got bit back home, too, if you’re wondering,” he says, his voice lower than Derek’s usually is. “He seems like he’s better at controlling it here. He isn’t back home.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

“Do too,” the other Derek says too gently, too softly. “You know you can’t lie to me. How’d your mom die here?”

Stiles looks away for a moment. “She got sick."

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” the stranger says, and Stiles is almost convinced for a second, for a heartbeat, that he’s telling the truth. “But back home, it didn’t go that way. Scott lost control one time. Just one time. And when he stopped, you were an orphan.”

Not-Derek closes the last of the distance between them, pressing him into the wall.

“You were… you were never quite right, baby boy,” Derek’s mouth whispers as his hand presses against Stiles’ throat. Not hard enough to bruise, not even hard enough to cut off his air. Just there, like a threat, like a promise. “So you used magic on him the first time. Bled yourself, used your blood and anger to fuel it. You took Allison away from him first, and then you found him and you used him until you collapsed. Let me watch, too.”

“That’s not me,” Stiles rasps, his throat too tight even without pressure on it.

He smiles, quick and easy. “’Course it’s not. This is an entirely different reality, after all. Your dad isn’t your world. Scott’s not crazy about Allison. Finding Nemo doesn’t make you cry and you don’t like it when I get on my knees and let you fuck my mouth.”

The Derek that isn’t his, isn’t theirs, puts his hand on Stiles’ side, runs it slowly down to the waistband of his jeans.

Then he presses his palm against the fly of Stiles’ jeans.

Stiles flinches, because this is wrong, and he shouldn’t, but he’s nineteen, and this is _Derek_ , even if it isn’t, even if it’s very much not Derek, but Derek – this not-Derek, this person – touches like he knows Stiles’ body better than Stiles does and he’s half-hard in his jeans.

“Get your hands off me,” he hisses.

The stranger rubs his palm along the length of Stiles’ dick, hot and almost on the edge of too rough through his jeans. “Hm,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “And what if I didn’t? I know what you like, baby boy. What if I just… did it? Did what you like?” Derek – Not-Derek bends in until there’s a bare inch between his mouth and Stiles’ ear. “What if I made you come in your jeans right here and now?”

“No,” Stiles says, swallowing hard, too hard, and turns his head to look at the stranger who isn’t really a stranger, the stranger who is in all the ways that matter. “And if you don’t get your fucking hands off me right now, I’ll show you exactly what I’m capable of here.”

_He_ smiles, slow this time, and soft, and Stiles knows that smile. That’s Derek’s proud Alpha smile, the one he gives the betas when they’ve finally gotten something they’ve been struggling to learn, when they take care of each other, when Stiles finds something they desperately needed to know.

“Kiddo, if I had more time, I would,” this Derek says, his hand sliding to cup the back of Stiles’ neck. “But my Stiles would fucking tear the dimensions apart if I didn’t come home to him when I said I would. And trust me when I say you don’t want that.”

There’s an extraordinarily fond expression on his face when he says it and Stiles – Stiles knows this particular face, okay? He’s spent his fair share of time trying to decode this particular face’s smallest changes.

And he’s not entirely sure he wants to deal with the fallout of that expression.

Other-Derek, wrong-Derek, shifts the hand on Stiles’ neck again, this time to cradle his jaw. The touch is too soft, too gentle, too much like he’s –

Then he puts his thumb against Stiles’ chin, pressing until Stiles can’t keep his mouth shut against the touch. “You smell a little different here, you know. You’re sweeter.” He raises both eyebrows. “Are you still a virgin here, baby boy?”

His face _burns_ and what a stupid thing, to be embarrassed now of all times. “Back off.”

“You _are_ ,” this Derek says, his voice pleased. “How about that. Dunno what the hell’s wrong with me, mind you, but how about that. Nobody else, huh?”

Stiles stares over this wrong, wrong Derek’s shoulder, gives a tiny shake of his head.

“Good,” _he_ says, and then –

And then –

And then Derek, not-Derek, Derek’s kissing him, and this isn’t what he pictured, isn’t what he wants, but it’s been Derek for _years_. And he’s not kissing back but he’s not sure it matters because there’s stubble scraping at his chin and cheeks, and a thumb still pressing his mouth open, and a tongue sliding inside.

The other Derek pulls away, slowly, squeezes his hand between Stiles’ legs once more, hard enough to make Stiles shudder despite himself, and steps back, grinning that too-easy smile.

“See you around, baby boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Here be spoilers.)
> 
> Basically, Stiles sees Derek acting strange and realizes it's not him. It's actually Derek from another reality/dimension/whatever you wanna call it. This-Derek talks about the Stiles from his home and describes violence and sexual assault/rape there (sorry Scott) along with a few character deaths (sorry, Allison and Sheriff and Mrs. Stilinski), and also bad-touches Stiles.
> 
> If I need to tag for anything else, let me know?
> 
> Also I'm sorry *hides* I'm a horrible person.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This got long. Like seven chapters and nine thousand words total long. Plot bunnies, dude. And they don't make little werewolf ovens for those ;)
> 
> Okay, so, I don't think I need to put any warnings here? If you were good with the first chapter, you should probably be fine with this one, but I need to tag for something or put a synopsis in the end-notes, let me know.

Derek wakes up with his head pounding like a bitch. That’s his first clue that something is wrong. The last time he woke up feeling this bad, his body had been healing from being tortured, dehydrated and starving. He drags an arm over his eyes, groaning softly. He couldn’t remember a fight. Things had been quiet lately, even. So what the hell had his pack of idiots convinced him to do now?

“Hey, you’re awake.”

The voice is familiar, normal, but the smell is wrong and that sends him into a crouch in a second, just barely keeping himself from wobbling when his head gives a vicious pound. Shit. Shit, _fuck_ , this is bad. If he can barely stand, how the hell is he supposed to fight, defend himself? 

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” the voice’s owner says and it’s just – it isn’t right.

Derek swallows, hard, and looks up. The sight doesn’t make things any less confusing but it’s a bad idea not to look, he knows. “Stiles.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” the person standing halfway across the room says, then laughs. “Well, sorta. You know what I mean. How’s your head?” 

This isn’t right. It’s Stiles, but it – it isn’t. He’s got a smirk on and jeans that actually fit him, tight around his hips, his only layer a leather jacket that looks weirdly familiar, and a T-shirt. His hair’s shorter than Stiles’ has been in years, not as short as when he was sixteen, but not long enough to grab. There’s a scar through one side of his mouth. And he smells _wrong_. It’s subtle, trace differences, but he’s known Stiles for almost four years. He knows what Stiles is supposed to smell like.

“Where is he?” Derek asks, his voice coming rough and cracked.

“I’m assuming you mean the other me?” Stiles grins. “That’s real sweet, Derek. He’s fine. I’m fine? Man, the whole alternate dimension thing really fucks with your pronouns. Well, whatever, in any case, your Stiles is completely fine. It’s really yourself you should be worried about, sweetheart.”

“Alright.” Derek stays where he is, crouched down ready to attack. Although he’s growing increasingly worried that he won’t be able to bring himself to attack anyone who looked, smelled, sounded so much like Stiles. _His_ Stiles, a voice in his head insists, and he’ll have to examine that thought more closely at a later date when he probably isn't going to have to try not to die. “Then where am I?”

Stiles-who-isn’t takes a step closer. “Much better question. You’re safe enough here so you don’t need to look like you’re about to pounce on me. ’Cause I’m pretty sure we both know you won’t hurt me.”

Too smart for his own good, Derek thinks without meaning to. It’s habit, a thought that he’s had a million times before.

“The Derek from here needed a place to lay low for a few days,” Stiles says easily, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “So I sent him to your world for a little bit and brought _you_ here.”

“ _Where_ is here?”

Stiles shrugs, taking another step closer. “My world. It’s a whole dimension thing and there’s string theory and I had to create a wormhole and trust me, you do not want to know about how much math it took me to do this thing. Nobody ever told me about the math when it came to magic. I should file a complaint.”

“And why the hell am I here exactly?”

“’Cause you’re not him. I mean, DNA, fingerprints, blood type, all that shit, sure, you’re probably identical.” Stiles begins to wander near again, pausing only for a second when Derek flashes his eyes. “Yeah, that, too. But magically, not so much. So I can keep _you_ safe here while I deal with the people who keep trying to kill my boyfriend.” Stiles is a bare two, three feet, tops, away when he stops and meets Derek’s eyes. “Just for the record, I’m kind invested in _him_ , but there’s no way in hell I’d let watch any version of _you_ die. So stop fucking growling at me.”

He hadn’t realized he was and the sound snaps off like someone punched him. It doesn’t feel entirely like it’s his choice, feels like the words had _power_ behind them that made him stop, and he’s knocked off balance, falls back against the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Much better,” this other Stiles says and smiles. “Are you hungry? I’m starving. Apparently opening a wormhole or two really takes it out of you. I was thinking of grabbing a pizza or three. What do you want?” he asks and there’s that… _pressure_ again.

“I want to go home,” Derek says against his will.

“I know,” Stiles says, closing the distance between them. He drops down to his knees in front of Derek, amber eyes glinting in the soft light. “Everything probably smells weird. _I_ probably smell weird. This isn’t your place and you don’t fit here, do you, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call me that,” Derek mutters, looking away from the kid. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

“Sure you are,” Stiles says easily. “My sweetheart, my darling, my baby, my honey, my ragtime guy. Now, _sweetheart_ , you can stay here for a few days, have a bit of a vacation, maybe get some sleep. Get rid of the circles under those pretty eyes. I got a great little charm for awesome dreams. That’s one way this can go down.”

The next thing Derek knows, Stiles has a hand around his jaw, fingers so hard he feels bruises being pressed into his skin. They hurt, a lot more than even the roughest human hands usually do, and he wonders if they’ll stay, if they’ll fight against his healing and linger.

“Or,” Stiles says, “Or we can do this the hard way. Because I’m going to keep you here for a little bit and that’s the just the way it’s going to go. So how do you want to do this?”

 

 

Stiles-who-isn’t sighs, rubbing his finger along the edge of the thick cuff on Derek’s wrist. “God, you’re just as stubborn as mine, huh? Hey, you wanna fool around?”

Derek bares his teeth.

Stiles just smiles. “You’re not going to hurt me, Derek, you don’t have to show off.” Stiles drops to the ground in front of where Derek is chained to the wall. “Are the chains hurting?”

“You chained me to a wall. What do you care?”

Stiles reaches out and stroked his fingers down Derek’s thigh. “Well, you know. If you’re not getting off on it, hurting you isn’t much fun. No matter how pretty you look like this. So answer me. Do the chains hurt?”

There’s that same _power_ in this strange Stiles’ voice and it makes all of Derek’s instincts rebel against him. He’s still not entirely sure how he even got chained up like this. He’s stronger than Stiles, always has been, because Stiles is human. Except there’s blood drying in his hair, and without electricity, without arrows, without wolfsbane, without any kind of weapon, he is the one chained up.

“No,” he mutters. “It’s fine.”

Stiles nods, long fingers still stroking Derek’s thigh. They’re familiar, the same fingers that have saved his life a hundred times, but the touch is not. “Good. Good boy. So. Are we fucking in your world? I could never get more than a glimpse of it. If I’m not fucking you in your world, I’m an idiot.”

“I’ve never – you don’t – we’re friends,” Derek manages, his body – his _face_ – hot. “You’re pack. I’m your Alpha.”

Stiles smiles slowly, and Derek’s only seen that smile a few times, when his Stiles – when _Stiles_ was… flirting. When there was a girl or a boy he liked, when he wanted to impress. Derek’s never seen it aimed at him before. “You can be my Alpha whenever you want.”

It’s a ridiculous line and it’s all Derek can do not to laugh at him. It’s just so – so _Stiles_. Completely uncoordinated, unsmooth, and somehow endearing as hell.

“Seriously?” he says instead.

Stiles shrugs, shameless. “You like it. When you get home, make a move. I’ll probably surprise you.”

“You usually do,” Derek admits, his voice hoarse. “How long?”

Stiles sits back, bracing his hands behind him. “How long… how long have we been together?” At Derek’s nod, he grins. “Coming up on four years. Since I was sixteen and you came home again.”

Came home – came home to – Derek jerks forward, yanking at the chains hard enough that he smells the blood vessels bursting under his skin,. “Came home to do what? Did – is she–”

“Oh, God.” Stiles’ hand comes to squeeze his thigh again, gently. “No, no, Laura’s not alive here. You came home when she died. Sorry.”

He falls back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. For a moment he’d thought maybe… Stiles is different here, so freaking different, _wrong_ in many ways, but to see his sister again, for her to be alive again even if she was different…

“Sorry,” Stiles says again, his hand still gentle on Derek’s thigh. “She – it was–”

“Peter?”

“Yeah. He’s dead now.” Stiles shifts his jaw back and forth, eyes going hard. “Very, very dead. We buried what was left of him in about five states.” Stiles shoves to his feet, shoulders rolling. “I have to go for a bit. This place has a mountain ash circle around it and about a million wards and enchantments. I know you’re not going to believe me, but you _are_ safe here.”

Derek looks slowly from the chains around his wrists to Stiles and back. “Right. I can see that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says but there’s a grin on his face. He walks over to Derek and catches him with two fingers under the chin, tilting his face up. “Hey, look at me for a minute.”

Stiles leans down when he looks up and brushes his lips over Derek’s. Just the briefest touch, like a hello, like a goodbye, like they did this all the time. _Almost four years,_ he thinks and shudders.

“Do that to me when you get home,” this strange Stiles says, eyes hooded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like a visual aid regarding Other-Stiles, try this: http://barlowstreet.tumblr.com/post/65049216990/saucefactory-so-can-we-all-just-agree-that


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this one... hope you guys like it! Next chapter will probably be up tomorrow because I have the day off.

The alcohol soaked cotton pad _burns_ when it passes over the claw marks down his back. Stiles digs his fingers into the comforter of his bed, cursing a steady stream of profanity under his breath.

Other-Derek pauses, one hand firm on Stiles’ shoulder. “Do you need a minute?”

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” Stiles muttered.

The werewolf sitting behind him snorts. “Stubborn. Why does that not surprise me?” He goes quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is softer. “I’m used to you healing yourself. I let myself forget how much I hate – how the hell do I stand it here?”

Stiles takes a slow breath. “I don’t think you’ve ever really cared.”

“Well.” Other-Derek shifts and Stiles feels him brush a kiss against the back of his neck. “At least we know I’m a good liar now.”

Stiles jerks, slapping a hand behind him until it connects with something and his palm stings. “Hey, we had a deal. Unless you’d rather not go home with your balls attached, keep your mouth off my neck.”

“Whatever you say, baby boy.” Derek tosses the cotton pad onto the towel on the bed and begins to tape bandages over the slices through Stiles’ skin. “Does this shit happen often for you? We thought this world was quieter. There’s – things are different here.”

Stiles shrugs. “The world is sometimes. Our lives aren’t always. Werewolves, dude, you know? Somebody trying to kill us, must be–”

“Tuesday.”

“Yeah.” Stiles glances back over his shoulder. “Exactly.”

Not-Derek smiles, softly. It’s so achingly familiar that Stiles can’t breathe for a minute. Then he smoothes the last bandage down and into place. “I know.” He taps Stiles’ shoulder, the touch more absent than anything. “There was something weird about that omega.”

“Huh?”

“It smelled weird. Like… kind of like you, actually.” Other-Derek snorts. “The other you, I mean. Magic.”

“Huh,” Stiles says again, frowning.

 

 

Stiles-who-isn’t walks in soaked in blood. Derek jerks at the chains still around his wrists before he really thinks about it. Usually when Stiles ends up covered in blood like this, something is very, _very_ wrong. Of course, nothing about this is right anyways and this is not _his–_

He swallows, glancing up at Stiles. Even if it’s not – it’s still Stiles and he needs to ask. “Are you okay?”

Stiles drops his back against the wall, slowly slumping down to the ground next to Derek. There’s a towel in his lap and when he begins to wipe off his hands, they’re completely steady. “Yeah. Oh, don’t worry, only a bit of it is mine. I tripped getting out of the Jeep and sliced my arm open.”

Derek snorts, shakes his head. “Smooth.”

Stiles shrugged. “Eh, what can you do? You think I could let you out of those without you taking off?"

“Where would I go?”

“Exactly. So can I or not?”

Derek holds out a wrist. Stiles nods, then tugs at the cuffs until they fall off. He doesn’t use a key and that answers one question. Then he pulls one of Derek’s wrists into his lap and rubs at the marks left behind.

“You pulled on them a lot,” Stiles mumbles softly, staring at the bruises and blood smudges on Derek’s skin. “Sorry. You couldn’t get out. You should have just sat still.” Stiles sighs, dropping Derek’s wrist back into his lap. “For the record, I really miss my you.”

After a moment, Derek lets Stiles lean into him, blood and all. “Same here,” he admitted quietly.

Stiles rubbed his forehead, leaving more smudges on his skin. “I don’t suppose you want to dig a few holes for me, huh?”

“What? Why?”

“’Cause I have a cooler full of hearts in the back of my Jeep that I need to bury.”

 

 

“My house doesn’t smell like you.”

Stiles shouts and throws himself out of bed, groping under the bed for the knife he’s kept there since the first time somebody attacked him at night while he was home alone. The fact that this had happened more than once sometimes seriously made him re-evaluate his life choices.

The light clicks on a moment later, half-blinding him. Derek – Not-Derek wanders over and lowers himself to the side of Stiles’ bed. “Little bit jumpy, baby boy?”

“Mother _fucker_.” Stiles pressed his hand to his chest. “Oh my _God._ What the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you, my house doesn’t smell like you.” Derek shrugs. “Look, I’ve had you sleeping next to me every night for almost four years, kiddo. I can’t sleep.” Not-Derek grins. “Wow, just how often do you jerk off in here? It didn’t smell this much like lube and come that time we spent two days straight in bed.”

Stiles’ face burns. “Get out. I told you, you stay away from me and you don’t screw up his life and I don’t go looking out for how to send your furry ass right back to your world.”

“But you’re so damn cute here.” Not-Derek reaches out a hand. “C’mon, get off the floor. I’m getting sore just looking at you. How’s your back?”

“Painful, thanks,” Stiles mutters, letting Derek pull him to his feet. After a long moment, he sits down on his bed near the headboard. He’d rather not kid himself. If the _werewolf_ in his room decides to attack him, it doesn’t exactly matter if he’s across the room or three feet away.

“Good,” Derek says. “Maybe you’ll learn to get your sweet ass out of the way when something’s trying to kill you.”

“No,” Stiles says. “No, I’m not arguing about this with you. This is ridiculous. I’m not arguing with my alpha’s doppelganger from another dimension about me getting hurt. No. You’re getting out of my bedroom and I am going back to sleep.”

Something changes. It’s an almost indecipherable change, more subtle but just as natural for him as the change from human to more. Stiles doesn’t think he’d be able to tell there’d been a change at all if it wasn’t for how well he knows his Derek. Other-Derek rolls his shoulders, and this – this is a stranger. The closest thing to this Stiles has seen has never been directed at him before this other Derek came to this world.

“Sure, we could do that,” Derek says easily. “I could leave, go wait out the rest of my little visit here while you jack yourself off again. And again. And – seriously, kid, how often do you jerk off in here?”

Stiles flushes hot all over. God _damn_ werewolves.

Derek stands enough to close the distance between him and Stiles, sinking back down onto the mattress so close that his knee brushes against the inside of Stiles’ thigh.

“Or we could have a bit of fun instead,” he says, voice soft, and reaches a hand forward to touch the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “You wanna leave a few marks? You like it when I keep them from healing. Could teach you how to fuck me. You’re good at that once you get the hang of it.” Not-Derek grins. “Really good.”

“Get _away_ from me,” Stiles says through his teeth, carefully pushing the cap off the can under the cover of his pillow.

“But you want to,” Not-Derek practically croons. “Aren’t you hurting, baby boy? I can practically smell how hard you are. You’re starting to soak your underwear already, aren’t you?"

Stiles takes a breath and jerks his hand and the can out from under his pillow, pressing down on the spray button as soon as it’s close enough. The stream of wolfsbane mace hits the other Derek right in the eyes.

He _howls_ and falls off the bed.

“I told you to get away from me,” Stiles says, his hand shaking as he swipes the back of it across his mouth. “Maybe next time you’ll learn to listen to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, Derek is wordier for me than Stiles. *shrugs* So here, have some Derek feels? XD

Stiles-who-isn’t paces back and forth, gnawing on the end of the string on the hoodie he pulled on when he woke up. He smells like anxiety, all acrid sweat and adrenaline, and Derek has to fight back the urge to reach out and pull him close. He doesn’t even do that with his – at home. At home, he touches Stiles like pack, hands on shoulders, letting him lean into Derek when he’s tired, the same as everyone else. He touches him like pack, like a friend, not like how he wants. Not like a lover.

He’s only ever comforted his – the Stiles from his world once the way he wanted to. Once, the time that the Sheriff got hurt by one of the Alpha pack. Stiles had been strong through getting his father to the hospital, through taking out the Alpha who’d hurt his father, calm and strong right up until his father made him go home for the night. Something about his heartbeat had been… strange. Between that, the circles under his eyes, and the constant smell of anxiety that’d been following him around for days, Derek hadn’t trusted Stiles to drive himself home.

Stiles had cracked jokes all the way, tapped a beat onto Derek’s dashboard, played with the radio. He’d played so hard at being normal that Derek hadn’t even bothered to pull away when Stiles got out of the car. He’d just waited, until a moment later, when the sound of Stiles’ heart trying to explode out of his chest reached him from inside the house. Then he’d turned his car off and gone into the house, finding Stiles in his room. The kid had tried to laugh it off, again, but Derek had just manhandled him onto his bed, sat behind him, and held onto him until he could breathe again.

Stiles-who-isn’t spins on his heel, wild eyes landing on Derek. “Okay, get your furry ass up, we’re going on a road trip.”

“What?”

“He’s not where we said he’d be.” Stiles-who-isn’t grabs his jacket off the back of a chair and jerks it on in sharp, unsteady movements. “I can’t get him  _home_  if he’s not where we said he’d be. So we’re gonna go get some supplies.”

Derek has seen this particular look before. Usually it’s for his father or Scott, often Lydia because Stiles will forever have a soft spot for her, sometimes Isaac or Erica because they have broken spots inside them that are hard to resist wanting to protect. Never for Derek.

He pushes himself to his feet, cautious. “Why?”

Stiles-who-isn’t smiles, tight and hard. “Because the asshole I know with your face, we had a deal. And he’s not home right now so I’m gonna take  _you_  home and get  _my_  idiot back.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I feel like I should be insulted right now.”

Stiles jerks his jacket on. “Well, you know, it’s your stupid brain that probably got itself into trouble. So put your big boy pants on and let’s go. You’re my backup today.”

Derek stops walking. Makes himself stop walking, because he hadn’t exactly noticed he’s started. “What kind of backup are you expecting?”

He doesn’t like the smile that curves Stiles’ mouth much. It’s slow and confident, but there’s sharpness in his eyes that Stiles doesn’t usually have.

“What,” Stiles says, shoving his hands into his jean pockets as he slowly, leisurely walks across the room. “Do you expect me to believe, Mr. Wolf, that you never ever get your hands dirty?”

Stiles is as tall as him, Derek notices dumbly. Stiles-who-isn’t stands tall and straight, not like his – the Stiles from his world, who hides beneath layers and jokes, makes himself small with them. It’s a strange realization.

“Because I’m not stupid,” the boy in front of him says and his eyes remind Derek more of a wolf than any of the lycan members of his patchwork pack. “And neither are you, sweetheart. Violence and death leave nice pretty little marks on you, Derek. And you are just as marked as I am.”

Derek swallows. “I know.”

Stiles reaches out and taps the joint of Derek’s jaw. “You can get used to it, you know. To being the villain, the one who does things others aren’t willing to. The one who does whatever it takes to protect the people you care about. After a while, you get used to the blood. Get used to the way people scream it hurts. When you  _make_  it hurt.” He flicks his tongue over his bottom lip. “After a while, you can even start to like it.”

“Do you?”

Stiles-who-isn’t smiles, shrugs. “Can’t say I don’t.”

 

 

Magic smells weird. It makes Derek’s nose itch, sinks into the skin and lingers worse than perfume or soap, worse than the French fry smell that used to cling to Laura’s hair for days when she worked at that diner in Ohio or the way the smell of wet fur that takes forever to get out of his sheets if he crawls into bed half-shifted after running through the rain. It’s more than just a scent, though, more like something embedded itself under the skin, in the blood, everywhere.

To be fair, he’s never liked witches. They usually smell funny on top of the magic, like herbs and patchouli and dirt, and they never like him either. Stiles, at home, has learned tricks over the years, mostly from Deaton, but only small things, like the mountain ash. They aren’t real magic, never make him smell so distinctly unnatural.

Derek shudders, once, hard, and rubs the cuff of his sleeve under his nose.

Stiles-who-isn’t traces symbols over the swept-clean expanse of the floor, mumbling under his breath. He’s been at it for almost thirty minutes, working his way around the perimeter of a five foot across circle as he sketches them just inside it. There are charcoal smudges all over his hands and his forehead and cheek where he’s forgotten and touched his face and he’s surrounded by things Derek can barely recognize by scent, let alone name. It took most of the day to find some of them. Stiles had led him deep in the woods for one of the plants and to a bar on the other side of the city for another. He’d crawled into the hollow space under a tree for the first, then stood behind Stiles and tried to pretend they didn’t all know Stiles was really the intimidating one to get the second out of the idiot at the bar.

He had a feeling that happened a lot here.

After a long few moments, Stiles sits back to inspect his work, nods and drops the charcoal. “Right,” he mutters, wipes his hands on his jeans, and picks up a knife. Then he pushes up his sleeve and sets the blade against his skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Derek snaps before he thinks about what he’s doing. 

Stiles blinks at him, the amber of his eyes almost eclipsed by the black of his pupils. “Wha…?”

“You’re not – did you do this before? To bring me here?”

“Uh… yeah?”

“And I let you?”

Stiles-who-isn’t grins slowly. “Nah. I sent you out to get something for me and did it while you were gone. You hate it when I do blood magic ’cause I can’t heal myself from it.”

Derek swallows, crosses his arms over his chest. “You – does it have to be your blood?”

Stiles shrugs. “No? Well, sometimes. Depends. If all I’m working on is anger and stubbornness, yeah, it usually needs to be mine. But otherwise, it doesn’t matter much. The blood and the act of spilling it is enough. I’m not really fond of killing bunnies, though, and I don’t like it when people jack up my circles with the flailing and moaning crap.”

This was a horrible idea, it really was. But… even if it wasn’t the one he knew, the one he –  it was still Stiles and he couldn’t… damn it.

Derek stalks over to where Stiles is sitting and drops to his knees next to the kid, careful not to touch any of the symbols on the floor. Then he holds one arm out and sighs. “Then use mine.

Stiles stares at Derek’s arm, the easy grin from earlier gone. “It takes a lot of blood.”

“Oh, so it’s obviously a much better idea for you to do it than me.”

Stiles looks at him and laughs, loud and bright. “Oh my God, don’t tell me we have this argument in your world, too.” He shakes his head. “Wow, I guess some things are constants. Okay, alright. I need this cup filled.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of tiny evil lawn gnomes. Derek and Stiles don't like to talk about it, though. When people see the scar on Stiles' ankle, he mumbles something about stupid people and changes the subject.
> 
> Also this was the MOST CONFUSING THING EVER TO WRITE.

Stiles wakes up from a nightmares about holding Scott down and… _hurting_ him, goes to the bathroom and throws up, then texts his dad about having dinner together that night, at home, after his father gets off work. They haven’t been spending enough time together lately and he really, really needs to fix that.

He takes a slow breath, drops his head back against the wall, and texts Scott to invite him, too, absently gnawing on his bottom lip as he types. He can’t avoid his best friend forever and he doesn’t want to. And because Scott is one of the sweetest people Stiles knows and he knows that Stiles can’t cook to save his own life – there have been _Incidents_ – he offers to help cook.

Stiles texts back his thanks with shaking fingers, drops his phone onto the floor next to him, and throws up again.

He spends most of the day in bed, alternating between staring at the ceiling, staring at the internet browser on his phone, and shoving his face in his pillow and pretending to sleep. By dinner, he still isn’t very hungry and his throat still hurts, but Scott spent hours cooking, so he makes himself eat and smile and laugh. It gets easier the longer he pretends to be okay. It always does.

Scott stops with a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth. “What the hell?”

Stiles drops his own fork. He knows that kind of look, has seen it on the face of every single werewolf he knows when they hear or smell something beyond his senses. “What?”

Scott shakes his head, hard. “Derek’s in your backyard. He wasn’t there a second ago. And he smells different than he did yesterday. And…” Scott frowns and standing, turning towards the back door. “That’s – it smells like – I can hear your heartbeat twice. Stay here, I’m going to go…”

No.

By the time Stiles unfreezes and shoves back from the table, Scott’s already at the door. He doesn’t reach him until Scott’s outside already, walking towards the two figures at the edge of the Stilinski’s backyard.

“ _No_.” He shouts it this time and grabs Scott’s arm, jerking him back. “No, you stay the _fuck_ away.”

He’s not even sure who he’s talking to at this point, Scott or – or the person stumbling to his feet across the yard, tripping over himself, and running towards them.

And right past them.

When he turns, his heart shuddering so hard in his chest it _hurts_ , it’s to see the other-him clinging to his father, face buried up to the nose in his dad’s uniform jacket. Stiles knows the way that jacket feels against his skin, the way it always smells like his father’s aftershave, and he knows the absence of one of the parents this other-him lost all too well. He drags in a rough breath and leans into Scott just a little.

“ _Dad,_ ” the other-him says and it’s more of a sob than a word.

His dad looks at Stiles from across the yard, eyes widening as his arms hover in the air. “Stiles?”

He takes another slow breath. “It’s me. He’s – he’s me from another world. I know it’s crazy but, you know, werewolves. Kanimas. Fucking _gnomes_. He, um…you aren’t…”

He can’t bring himself to say it, but he thinks his father gets it, from the nod, and then Dad is wrapping the other-him in a patent-pending Stilinski hug, squeezing so hard that Stiles can practically hear ribs creaking from here.

Scott grabs Stiles’ arm. “Okay. Am I hallucinating here? Did you get mad at me and spike my Coke with wolfsbane?”

Derek – oh _God,_ Derek – groans from the ground behind them, ever helpful as always.

Stiles rubs his hands over his hair. “I – it’s a long story.”

“Let me guess.” Scott sighs. “A pretty girl with a necklace offered you a wish.”

 

 

There are two Stileses when Derek opens his eyes. He groans and closes them again. Double vision usually doesn’t – wait.  Very cautiously, he opens one eye. Still two Stileses – but they’re dressed completely differently. One in leather and tight-jeans, one in – one in too many layers and absolutely not a single piece of clothing that fits him correctly.

“Stiles,” he gasps and jerks upright, ignoring the sharp throbbing of his head in favour of grabbing Stiles – _his_ Stiles, damnit, and for a moment he doesn’t fucking care that he isn’t, really – by the flannel-covered shoulder and yanking him. He presses his nose against the base of Stiles’ throat and inhales as deeply as he can and the scent is _right_ for the first time in five days.

Stiles pats him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, too, you incredible weirdo. The hell are you doing?”

“Last time he woke up snarling like crazy,” Stiles-who-isn’t says. “So, really, this is an improvement. Okay, chop chop, you have yours back, where’s mine?”

Derek combs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, long enough to be fluffy and kind of insane, because it’s been almost three years since he grew it out and he still doesn’t know how to style it well, and pulls back.

Stiles shakes his head, long since used to strange werewolf behaviour, and frowns at his other-self. “I haven’t seen the other Derek since the night before last.”

Stiles-who-isn’t pinches his noise. “Oh, fuck me silly. Hale, I’m going to murder you.”

Stiles-who-is – and this is starting to hurt Derek’s head – looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “Dude. Really.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Derek protests. “I have literally been in another dimension for five days. How could this be my fault?”

Stiles-who-isn’t leans forwards and pats him on the jaw. “Because you make terrible decisions. It’s why you need a me around.”

His head really, really hurts now.

 

 

The real, true Stiles is radiating anxiety and he keeps not-so-subtly pulling Scott away from the other-him.

Finally, the Stiles-who-isn’t rolls his eyes. “Okay, look. How’d Mom die here?”

Stiles’ jaw twitches, like he’s clenching his teeth down too hard. “She got sick. She – it was… slow.”

Stiles-who-isn’t nods. “Okay. Then I have no problem with him,” he says, jerking his chin at Scott. “He’s your people here, I get it. Scott, buddy, you get it too, right? How I take care of my people? So. As long as you don’t hurt my dad, I don’t have to teach you what your own dick tastes like chopped off and shoved down your throat.” He smiles, easy. “I’ll be waiting in the Jeep.”

Derek has spent five days with this Stiles-who-isn’t, who is confident, purposefully seductive at time, cruel. He’s spent almost four years with his – _their_ Stiles who pretends to joke when he’s serious, who eats like if he doesn’t put it all in his mouth at once, he won’t be allowed to have it all, who is completely graceless more often than not. Who protects the people he cares about viciously, who is quick to suggest killing as an early resort because it's... practical, because someone has to say it, because with their lives, it is always an option they have to think about. Who depends on Scott to pull him back from that line.

At this point, Derek isn’t surprised by any Stiles.

Scott, however, looks a little shell-shocked and pale, and Stiles has his hands over his face, shaking slightly.

A second later, Scott hisses in a harsh breath and leans forward to grab Stiles by the hair, shaking him a little. “Hey, idiot, look at me. Whatever he did, you didn’t, okay? I wouldn’t let you. Same as you didn’t let me hurt anyone when I was new. Stiles, listen to me, _I won’t let you._ ”

After a long moment, Stiles exhales. Nods.

Scott nods back, combs Stiles’ hair down with his fingers. “Okay. Now are you ready to go do the rescue mission thing again?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rolls his shoulders, offers Scott a wan smile. “Let’s go.”

Scott pushes to his feet and drags Stiles with him. “I should have known something was up. Derek was being nice.”

“Seriously?” Derek asks from the ground where he’s totally not still a little dizzy. “I’ve been gone for almost a week. I have done _nothing_ to deserve this.”

Stiles grins and it’s the most right thing Derek has seen in five days. “Dude. You really want to try to convince _us_ you’re nice?”

“I regret ever meeting any of you,” he mutters under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon! Magic makes Derek sick. Like motion-sickness. It's not a werewolf thing, it's just a Derek thing because I'm mean to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I was going to put this up on, like, Friday but then I went away on Friday and didn't take my laptop and only got home today. Whoops XD
> 
> COULD I HAVE USED THE WORD OTHER MORE IN THIS???????????? Also pronouns are confusing as HECK.

Stiles sends Scott inside to get supplies and check on his father. It’s an excuse and Scott gives him a look like he doesn’t believe it, but Stiles does a complicated dance with his eyebrows to try to convey a “we’ll talk about it later” vibe and Scott goes. Sometimes - sometimes Scott is the best, Stiles thinks, know, believes with every fibre of his being. Then, breathing in, he runs his hands through his hair and turns to Derek.

“Are you okay?” Stiles takes a step closer, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie because this is so, so awkward. What the hell is he supposed to say? ‘Hey, how was your time with the homicidal version of me that’s banging the creeptastic version of you? By the way, I know what your hand feels like on my dick and also I’m scared of myself now?’ “I know – the other you told me some things about the other me. And–”

“I’m fine.” Derek catches his shoulder and squeezes, the touch surprisingly gentle. “I’m completely fine. Are – uh – are you?”

Stiles inhales against the tightness in his chest. He’s getting better at lying to werewolves. At keeping his heart calm, at dancing around with half-truths and almost-lies. He doesn’t quite want to know what that says about him. So he starts to say something about how fine he is. Except…

_You know you can’t lie to me._

“No,” he admits. “I learned there’s a version of me that tortured my best friend. That – and I’m gonna have to figure out how I’m gonna deal with that.” He pulls his fingers through his hair again. “So, no, I’m not okay, but I’m handling it.”

Derek nods. “If you need help dealing, I’m here.”

He takes a breath and claps Derek on the arm, once, not letting his hand linger too much. “Yeah. Okay, let’s go deal with the clone army.”

 

 

They find the other-Derek in a shed in the woods, chained to a wall. Stiles can practically smell the wolfsbane from the door and winces as the other-Stiles touches the black lines running down the length of both of not-Derek’s arms, the veins filled with poison.

“Man, that must get old,” Stiles says without thinking.

“You have no idea,” Derek mutters behind him.

It takes the other-Stiles less than five minutes to break the cuffs off. Not with, like, a key or an axe or anything. No, he just pokes at them for a few moments and then his hands glow gently and the cuffs fall away.

“Dude, you’re magic,” Scott says into his ear.

Stiles turns and blinks at him. “You’re only noticing that now?”

The other-Stiles takes a moment to pat the other-Derek down, obviously checking for injuries as Other-Derek murmurs reassurances that he’s fine. There’s enough of the same wolfsbane right there to burn and heal the wounds. Then Stiles watches his other-self bodily climb the other-Derek like a tree and try to suck his tongue out.

“Well,” Stiles says.

“Awkward,” Scott agrees next to him.

“Nice move,” Derek says and surprises a laugh out of Stiles.

The other-Stiles pulls away, presses his mouth dead center in Other-Derek’s forehead, and hops down. “Okay, let’s move. I wanna go home. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I miss my cat and I want to fuck my boyfriend into my own mattress.”

Stiles is almost amused by the way Derek turns red. The real Derek, that is. The other one is just grinning, the shameless bastard. The real Derek, though, is blushing and staring at his feet and Stiles… Stiles might just have to file that away for future reference.

“Ugh, I never ever needed to hear that,” Scott mutters and leaves the shed.

Then he screams.

Stiles beats both the Dereks and the other him outside, because _Scott_ and he’s bleeding, all over Stiles’ hands, and his shirt, and making noises like it hurts, and it isn’t healing. There aren’t those God-awful black lines that say wolfsbane, it’s just bleeding like crazy and not healing. Why the _hell_ isn’t it healing? There are hands on his arms, on Scott’s, dragging them around behind the shed, and then the other him elbows Stiles aside, pressing a hand over the wound bleeding from Scott’s shoulder. “This is gonna hurt like hell. Scream again if you want.”

Scott doesn’t scream again and it’s horrible. He just shoves his face into Stiles’ shoulder, gasping, _whimpering,_ while his shoulder smokes and stinks of burned flesh. His skin cauterizes itself, Stiles tries not to throw up and the other him just breathes out and moves away.

Other-Stiles licks his bottom lip, jerks his chin at Other-Derek. “Hey, furface. Babe. Witch?”

“Yeah. Just one.”

“Right. You get hurt?”

The other Derek shrugs. “I’ve had worse. Wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but, you know, it’s not the first time I’ve pissed a witch off.”

“Which honestly says so much about you,” Other-Stiles mutters. “Okay.”

The other Stiles closes his eyes, something settling in his face. For a moment, Stiles thinks of a handful of mountain ash and believing so hard it _hurts_. Then the other him opens his eyes and Stiles _jolts_ because they’re pure, liquid black from one corner to the other. That’s… probably not good.

“ _Stay_ ,” he says, standing, and Stiles wants to mock the werewolves – hello, dog jokes are awesome – except he’s not entirely sure he can move.

One of the Dereks growls softly. It’s theirs, Stiles realizes after a second, from this world, which makes more sense than Stiles cares to admit. Between kanima venom, and hunters with chains, and the time they got trapped when the mine they were in – and Stiles still doesn’t know why they’d been in a mine, honestly, that was _so_ not his idea – caved in, he understands why Derek doesn’t like being able to move.

_Believe_ , he thinks, and reaches a hand out, slow as molasses but still moving, to touch Derek’s arm.

“Baby boy,” Other-Derek says, “You’re not going off without me and don’t you dare get the idea you are.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the other Stiles says, holding out a hand as light begins to drip off it. He paces in a wide circle around them, leaving a glowing line on the ground. “Miss Witch is going to come out and play. Because it’s not nice to kidnap and torture people, is it, Sabrina?” There’s a flash of light from the treeline. The other Stiles raises a hand and waves the fireball back and somebody lets out a muffled scream. “Come on, now, we’re all too old to be playing with matches,” he says, his voice light, like he’s… taunting. “And I’m getting bored here. It’s an ADHD thing. Got the meds for it and everything. So if you wanna play with fire, we can do that.”

He pauses, and one of the trees bursts into the flames.

Stiles feels Derek tense under his hand and squeezes his arm as much as he can.

“But the thing is,” other-Stiles says, “I’m not real fond of fire, honestly. Doesn’t do a lot for me. No art in it. Lacks poetry, you know.”

Other-Stiles waves a hand and the tree goes out as quickly as it’d ignited. He nods, stopping a few feet in front of Scott, Stiles and the two Dereks, and sets himself with feet at shoulder width, braced. “I think there are too many trees here, don’t you?”

And they’re gone, just like that, every tree separating them and the witch disappearing. She takes a step backwards, glancing at the perfect-half circle of forest around her, and Stiles can see the panic on her face even from probably twenty or thirty feet away.

“No, you stay there,” the other-Stiles says, friendly, like an invitation. “Poetry, let’s see… could take the air out of your lungs.”

It takes a second. The witch blinks a couple times, starts to frown – and hits her knees. The wheezing is audible even to Stiles and he shudders, remembers his best friend’s lips being blue-tinged as he gasped, remembers being completely alone and completely helpless as Scott’s body tried to kill him. Remembers wrapping an arm around Scott’s chest, remembers holding the inhaler because Scott’s fingers were numb and shaking, remembers crying into Scott’s neck.

“Yeah, we could do that,” Other-Stiles says. “Or…”

The witch gasps in air, the fingers of one hand digging into the dirt.

“Or not. Could turn you into an animal, since you seem to have a problem with werewolves. I could make you… hm, how about a rabbit. A nice little nervous system. Perfect for when a wolf tears your throat out.” Other-Stile shrugs. “Yeah, that could be fun. But honestly, I’ve always been a fan of the classics. Strip your skin off an inch at a time. Make it so your lungs fill with fluid and drown you from the inside. Although I think… I think my favourite is actually just a nice, sharp knife.”

An arm wraps around Stiles’ chest and a hand presses over his heart. The scar on the back of the hand is from falling off the handlebars of Stiles’ bike going down the biggest hill they could find. Stiles breathes in, slow, Scott’s hand moving with his chest as Scott leans his forehead against the back of Stiles’ shoulder. Derek’s half in front of them both and Stiles wonders if the other-him is losing control or letting Derek move.

“You ever hold a heart in your hands?” the other Stiles asks. “It’s trippy, dude. Sometimes you swear you can almost still feel it beating, even if you’ve completely cut it free. Totally crazy.”

Stiles watches his own face smile and shivers.

“So,” the other him says, “Do you want to play?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's all folks! Last chapter. Thanks for all the comments and subscribes and bookmarks. You guys ROCK. :D

Stiles-who-isn’t catches Derek by the wrist. “Hey. The other you wants to talk to the other me. So c’mon, I wanna talk to _you_.”

He lets himself be dragged into a corner of the backyard, lets himself be pushed back up against a tree. He thinks that he could probably pull away, could probably say no and make him let go – but then again, he’d thought that before and that ended with a head wound and chains. So he leans back against the tree instead of fighting, ignoring the sharp bite of bark through the fabric of his shirt.

Stiles-who-isn’t frowns, eyebrows drawing together over too-serious eyes. “Okay. So… I have to know because – the person who fucked with your head? Dead in this world?”

He nods without thinking. “She – Peter killed her.”

“Okay,” Stiles-who-isn’t says. Nods. “Good. Okay. ‘Cause – well, let’s just not get into it because it’s not one of my favourite stories and I can’t show you the scar without taking my pants off.” He flashes a grin. “Which, you know, I’m not generally adverse to with you, but I think my dad’s watching.”

Derek remembers the moment of thinking some version of Laura might be alive and – it hurts that he has to say it, so he reaches out and brushes his fingertips across the spot where Stiles’ collarbone is exposed by the dipping neckline of his shirt. Stiles from here broke it once, took a hit too hard in lacrosse of all things. Nothing supernatural, just a bad angle in a stupid high school game. It bothers him when it rains, aches like a bitch, in his words, and makes him antsier than usual. Derek's not sure when he got into the habit of siphoning off a little of the pain on bad days. He's not sure what it says about him that he can't remember the decision to do it the first time, can't remember anything except watching Stiles shift and smell like hurt and wanting to make it stop.

He touches carefully, and then brings his hand back to his side. “He’s not really yours, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles-who-isn’t shrugs. “But… he still is, same as you’re still mine. I just… it was nice to see him. Amazing. You know. You think you could do me a favour?”

Derek hesitates, narrowing his eyes. “What?”

“Keep an eye on him?” Stiles fidgets, something Derek hasn’t really seen him do that often. “Just… help me here with that. Please.”

Derek nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I will. You know I will. But do one for me?”

Stiles-who-isn’t grins. “Oh Alpha, my Alpha.”

“Not like that, you idiot,” Derek says, but his mouth curves almost against his will. “Just… let Scott go.”

The smile disappears and Stiles takes a staggering step backwards, like the words hit him the same as a blow. “Fuck off.”

Derek catches his shoulder. “Just listen for once in your stubborn life. Do you really think I don’t get it? Do you think I don’t understand exactly what it feels like to lose your entire family because of somebody you _loved_?”

“No,” Stiles-who-isn’t says, his voice hard, “I think you know exactly how it feels. I think you know that better than anyone, honestly.”

“Yeah.” He reels Stiles-who-isn’t in slowly, one hand going around the back of his neck. It’s more familiar than he usually is with his – _their_ Stiles, but he thinks that after the week he’s had, he can let himself indulge. “And I know how the guilt feels and I know how it feels when you blame yourself and I know _you._ You shouldn’t be doing this to yourself.”

Stiles’ jaw jumps. “I thought we had this conversation. You know, the one where I told you that I wasn’t _him_.”

“We’re not going to talk about whether you like to carve people open or not. That’s not why I’m asking.” Not that he’s particularly comfortable with the idea, but he’s well familiar with the stubbornness of one Stiles Stilinski. Or, uh, two in this case. _Fuck,_ his head still hurts. “I’m asking because every time you look at Scott, you feel guilty and hurt because you think you got your parents killed. And I don’t care what you’ve done. You don’t deserve that.”

Stiles-who-isn’t inhales, louder than usual, and his heartbeat hitches. “You – God, you’re such an idiot sometimes.”

“Gee, thanks,” Derek says drily.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop talking,” Stiles-who-isn’t blurts and grabs him by the ears. “Come _here_.”

He expects a kiss, expects full on the mouth, expects to have to dodge Stiles’ tongue. Instead he gets Stiles pulling him down enough to press his mouth to the center of Derek’s forehead, gets a hand ruffled through his hair, gets a glimpse of honey brown eyes glinting too-brightly.

“Make a fucking move,” Stiles-who-isn’t says, his voice half-choked. “Just – just trust me, the me here or me because I know how –  or whatever because I’m probably going crazy over you and – just _make a fucking move_.”

 

 

“Hey, baby boy,” Other-Derek says. “Been looking for you.”

Stiles sighed, leaning back against the wall. This has been the longest week of his life, and he’s counting that time with the gnomes and mushrooms and _horrible things_ so that's saying a lot, trust him. “And I’ve been avoiding you. Do I need to break out the pepper spray again?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Other-Derek says with a laugh. “Your dad’s downstairs with Scott, and the other me is outside with my Stiles. I think your virtue’s safe, kiddo.”

“Still don’t trust you,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect.” Other-Derek closes the distance between them, an echo of the first time they’d met as he presses Stiles back into the wall, a bare inch of distance separating them. “You gonna miss me?”

“Not in the slightest. You wanna back off now?

Derek grins and pushes his knees between Stiles’, forcing his legs apart to make a space there for Derek’s body. Very, very deliberately, he rolls his hips up until all Stiles can feel is _hardness_ again him. “Sure about that? God, do you know how you smell right now? All warm and lit up… smelling like you should be fucked into next week.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Okay, that is not a smell, dude. 

“Sure it is,” Other-Derek says. “You know, I could always stay for a bit. Grab the other you, maybe the other me. I still know what you like.” He grins, leans forward until his stubble scrapes against Stiles’ jaw. “Get rid of that pesky virginity thing, yeah?”

Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue. “ _That’s_ the pickup line you’re going with? ‘Wanna have freaky group sex with your own doppelganger?’” He snorts, then frowns. “Huh. Wait. Would that be masturbation or incest?”

Other-Derek bursts into laughter, shoulders shaking as he drops his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder. “Oh my God, kid. Never change, baby boy. You’re perfect.” His left hand slips up, wrapping around the back of Stiles’ neck. Then stubble scrapes against Stiles’ jaw again and a hot, open-mouthed kiss is pressed there. “Never change.”

Stiles sighs and thumps the Other-Derek on the shoulder. “Yeah, right back at you. Also if you ever show up in this world again, I’ll send your ass back to yours so fast your ancestors will puke. Got it?”

 

 

Derek rubs his nose, impatient for the sharp itch of magic to fade. When he hears footsteps close behind him, he moves over to make room on the porch steps. They’re the same as they were when he was growing up, mostly untouched by the fire. A decade without care had weathered them, but they’re well made and solid.

Stiles sits next to him and squints at the setting sun. It glints off his eyes, turns them the colour of whiskey. “You get that this is a bad place, right?”

“You get that this was my home for sixteen years, right?” Derek snaps. He's allowed to be defensive about this. It's kind of a sore spot.

“Yeah.” Stiles’ jaw jumps. “I do. Same house where you were practically born, right? Same place you took your first steps, fell down the stairs and chipped a tooth when you were four, where your mom and you made the worst cake in the world when you were eight for your dad’s birthday and he ate it anyways.”

Derek frowns, staring at Stiles. “What?”

“You know,” Stiles says, leaning into his knees and wrapping his arms around them. “The spot on the couch where your parents told you that your mom was gonna die. That she’d been sick for a long time, but it was getting worse too fast for the doctors to fix. The corner of the living room where the computer used to be when you snuck downstairs at God o’clock in the morning and looked up the name of her disease and found out that women with it weren’t supposed to get pregnant because it exacerbated it and…” Stiles swallowed, turning his head away from the sun, and shrugged. “This is a bad place for you.”

Derek sighed and reached over to cup the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezing carefully. He’s barely touched Stiles since that the first moment of seeing him when he woke up and he thinks – he thinks this is probably okay, probably won’t cross any lines. He just needs to touch or he’s going to go crazy. “You’re probably right.”

Stiles looked at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “What was that now? I’m not sure I heard that.

“Shut up,” Derek says, but it’s fond.

Stiles laughs softly. “Yeah, yeah.” He bites at the inside of his bottom lip and his heartbeat lurches as he leans, ever so slightly, into Derek’s hand. “So we should probably talk about the thing where I’m a serial killer in another dimension.”

“Probably,” Derek agrees and squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck again.

“And possibly about the thing where the version of you from another dimension was, uh, kind of fond of badtouching me.”

“Shit,” Derek mutters, jerking his hand away. “I’m sorry, I–”

“Dude, I’m fine.” Stiles shrugs. “By the way, the wolfsbane spray works well. So knock it off, you don’t get to guilt about things you didn’t actually do.”

“Maybe you should take your own advice.” He swallows and carefully puts his hand back where it was. “We ignoring the elephant in the room?”

Stiles’ heart _lurched_ , the sound louder in Derek’s ears than his own heartbeat. He inhaled, heart racing. Then he leaned forwards towards Derek, slowly, but deliberately. “Do we have to? Because, man, I have had a rough week. I thought you were possessed or something, dude, because your general…” Stiles gestured at Derek’s torso. “ _Ness_ isn’t enough, I had to factor in powers of unspeakable evil.”

“Unspeakable evil.” Derek repeats. “You thought I was possessed.”

“You _smiled_. It was terrifying.”

“I smile.”

“Not like that!” Stiles says, eyes widening as he shakes his head. “You smirk a lot because you’re an _asshole_ , but to make you smile so you mean it is hard. And I don’t blame you, dude, but it is.” Stiles swallows, hard. “It just – I knew it wasn’t you. And… I just–”

“No,” Derek says, cutting off Stiles’ words. “No, we don’t have to ignore it. I don’t want to ignore it.”

Stiles blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and pulls him in close.

The kiss is a little messy. A little sloppy, a little wet, a little less than finessed.

Derek can’t help but think that it’s completely perfect.

He opens his eyes when Stiles pulls back to breathe, but neither of them go far which is nice. Stiles leans his forehead against Derek’s with his eyes still shut, close enough that his breath comes warm and damp against Derek’s cheek.

“S’good to have you back,” Stiles says, smiling kind of dopily.

Derek grins back, quick and short, but real, and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So do you guys wanna play "What Should BarlowGirl Post Next?" 
> 
> On my laptop, I have a "Things We Do Not Talk About" folder (hey, then it's not my fault if someone finds the porn), and in it, I have 300 words of a Bloody!Stiles that could probably turn into hurt/comfort but wasn't what I was trying to write (And I Count My Sins was annoying as HECK to write, if you're wondering), 2000 words of bottom!Derek porn that the tone is slightly off of but I'm pretty sure I can fix, 5000 words of something that is sort of a sequel to "The Shadow of Your Heart" and has no plot besides smut and I'm unsatisfied with it because it doesn't have a plot (my brain is weird) and the thing I'm working on now which is 6500 words of Derek feels, basically.
> 
> SO. Whattyawanna see? (Also I'm not making any promises here. My muses be fickle sometimes.)


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